Authors: Dan Hampton
It was well past 9
P.M.
and he was certain the airpark was deserted. Even so, he wanted
to be motionless and quiet as soon as possible. Taxiing to the north end, the
mercenary turned off at the edge of the fueling pad and cut the throttles,
rolling to a stop next to the pumps. Unbuckling his harness, he powered down the
avionics and shut off the battery. Sitting now in total darkness, the pilot
watched the buildings for any sign of movement.
As expected, there was none.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the clamshell
cockpit door and breathed in the warm, wet Texas air. For another five minutes
he waited, hot metal ticking as it cooled, and watched the roads north and south
of the runway. Nothing. Sliding out then, the Sandman walked to the tail
section, jumped up on the starboard boom and forced the plane's nose off the
ground. Grunting against the weight, he swung the SkyMaster around on its main
gear until it was pointed back toward the runway. Pulling a pair of chocks from
the rear compartment, he placed them under the left wheel, stood back and
stretched.
Walking slowly over to the operations building, he
massaged his neck and yawned. It was half past nine and the sun was due up in
about eight hours. A sign on the door announced that Brenner Aviation was open
for business at 0730. Lessons, fuel, and rentals were available.
But the Sandman already knew that.
Strolling back to the plane, he took his bags out
and sat them on the concrete. Transferring a pair of Corcoran boots, a tightly
rolled flight suit and his workout gear to a plain tan backpack, he also tugged
out a black sports jacket and draped it over the passenger seat. The Texas
license, military ID, and one corporate Visa went into his money clip. His other
ID, passport, and credit cards were taped flat beneath the lining of the larger
travel case and would not be found from a casual search. A professional would
discover them but if it came to that he had other problems. Repacking the bags,
he locked the compartment and pocketed the key. Setting his watch alarm at 4
A.M.,
the Sandman climbed into the rear
compartment, pulled the clamshell shut and stretched out to sleep.
T
hroughout the night, law enforcement officials in Virginia and their
military counterparts reviewed surveillance tapes, ran down leads and eliminated
possibilities. As dawn broke over the Chesapeake Bay, Doug Truax stared at his
cold, bad coffee with distaste. The only thing he knew for certain was that he'd
missed a night of sleep.
“Nothing yet?” A sleepy voice behind him asked.
Jolly Lee was yawning and squinting at the bright bars of light shining through
the window slats.
“State and local law enforcement have zip.” Axe
rubbed his eyes. “Same from the sky cops and OSI here. We also haven't heard
from our new FBI buddy yet, but if he had anything I'd like to think he'd tell
us.”
Lee snorted. “Right. The government is so
forthcoming with information.”
“We're the government.”
“Good point.” He yawned again. “How goes the
research?”
Truax thought he must be talking about the
mercenary incident.
“I think the Marine and the Dutchman are the best
bets, but it's to the point now where they need to be met face-to-face.”
““The OSI can do that.”
“The OSI doesn't know a pitot tube from a
twenty-millimeter cannon.”
“So you want to do it?”
Axe shrugged and looked around blearily. God, he
hated this place. “Who else?”
“I'll see what I can do. You're better suited for
that anyway, rather than playing detective.”
“Thanks.”
“Besides, “Lee tipped a coffee cup up and sniffed
at the contents. “If this maniac killer of ours was gonna do it again he
probably already would have. I thinkӉhe put the cup on the desk and began
tucking in his shirtâ“that the worst is behind us.”
U
p . . . UP!
He rolled the fighter and
pulled for the sky, straining every muscle, every sinew. Sweat leaked from
under the oxygen mask and he felt it slide on his cheeks as the G forces
pressed him into the ejection seat.
Another flash of yellow caught
his eye and a faint gray streamer broke free of the mottled brown earth.
Mouth dry, he forced the jet through the horizon, then snap-rolled into the
surface-to-air missile, trying to close the distance. Another flash! Groping
for the countermeasure switch, the pilot swallowed hard, blinking the salty
sweat from his stinging eyes as his warning receiver told him what he
already knew.
“BEEP . . . BEEP
. . . BEEP . . .” More missiles.
Trying to pull harder, his
gloved hand slipped off the stick! Harder . . . his breath was
ragged as grabbed the slippery stick again. The jet waffled and the SAM
corrected to point at him . . . it was close enough to see the
fins. Move! The veins in his neck stood out and the Gs had trapped his head
back against the seat . . . pull!
“BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
. . .”
Sitting bolt upright, he reached for a stick and
throttle that weren't there. Eyes wide, the mercenary gulped air and stared at
the back of a seat, an aircraft console . . . a door.
Texas.
He was in Texas. In the back of the SkyMaster.
“BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP
. . .”
Swallowing, he felt for the watch alarm and turned
it off. Taking a deep breath, the Sandman peered outside at the little parking
area and the fuel pumps. Huber Airpark. Wiping his forehead, he closed his eyes
and forced the memory back. When his breathing slowed, he pulled himself forward
and opened the clamshell door. Gingerly working out the kinks, he glanced at his
watch: 0401.
Feeling better, he massaged a shoulder, yawned, and
shook his head slightly. After only being back on American soil for five days,
he was surprised at how natural it felt. Familiar. Looking around the little
airpark, he inhaled the morning Texas air, heavy with dew, wet grass, and steamy
warmth left over from the night. Across the road, a row of meadowlarks huddled
on telephone wires that sagged between leaning poles.
Scribbling a note on a piece of paper, the Sandman
walked over to the office and stuck it in the screen door. Back at the plane, he
exchanged his jeans for brown khakis and changed shirts. Slinging the backpack
over one shoulder, he carried the sports jacket and walked out across the little
runway. At 4:15, everything was still dark, but he knew the road to town was on
the east side of the field. Five minutes later, munching on two packets of trail
mix and an orange, the mercenary stepped onto the asphalt and headed south
toward Seguin. He'd given himself two hours to cover the three miles, but a few
minutes after six he was passing a row of repair shops with Spanish names onto
Austin Street.
Strolling south a few blocks, he turned right at
Kingsbury Street and walked into El Taco Tejano. Sitting near the door, the
Sandman ate a huge breakfast of chorizo and eggs, washed down with black coffee.
An hour later the local traffic was beginning to stir, so he walked south for
another two hundred yards into a little red auto-repair shop that doubled as a
Hertz rental-car agency.
“Mornin' sir.” A chubby Hispanic girl got up from
behind a computer and lumbered over to the small counter. “How may I help
you?”
Smiling disarmingly, the Sandman laid two pieces of
plastic down. “Good morning. I believe you have a reservation for Tyler.”
The keyboard clicked. “Yes . . . a Daniel
Tyler for five days. Drivers license and a credit card, please.” He handed over
the Texas ID and the Blue River credit card.
“That's right. I've got an interview at Texas
Lutheran later today.”
She looked up. “Oh. Are you a professor?”
“Associate professor. Medieval theology.”
The girl chuckled. “I barely made it through high
school.” After running the credit card, she handed it back to him. After the
litany of insurance and five signatures, a set of keys was passed across. “So
you need a map?
“Yes, please.”
Handing over a sheaf of rental papers, she pointed
behind him. “It's the green Camry.”
Thanking her, the mercenary left the building and
slid into the car. Ten minutes later, he turned north on State Highway 46, then
merged onto Interstate 10 heading west toward San Antonio.
With the window down, the mercenary sniffed the
morning air again and gazed at the mottled green fields rolling off in all
directions. Twenty minutes later, after crossing the Guadalupe River, he took
Exit 587 and found himself on the 1604 Loop. This bypassed San Antonio toward
Universal City and Randolph Air Force Base.
Farmland changed to tacky strip malls, auto shops,
and, of course, fast-food joints. Flipping through the radio stations he was
surprised to hear rock 'n' roll mixed in with the usual country songs about dead
dogs and unfaithful wives. Traffic picked up and there seemed to be more
motorcycles on the road than he remembered. At 8:25, he joined the long line of
cars entering the main gate and slowed to a crawl. Timing his arrival to
coincide with the morning rush, the Sandman would almost certainly not be
remembered.
The entrance to the base was immaculate. Manicured
grounds ran off from both sides of a wide, divided road and the morning
sprinklers were on. As he rolled down the window, the smell of wet grass mixed
with jet fuel wafted over in the light breeze. The security policemen were
efficient, taking ID cards and handing them back, saluting officers and waving
in the others. Some vehicles were waved over for inspection or other paperwork
problems, but as he'd counted on, no scanners. Randolph was a headquarters base
and very busy. Lots of colonels and generals. Lots of retirees.
The skinny black cop took in the car and the
well-dressed man behind the wheel. Seeing the relatively short hair and civilian
clothes, he visibly relaxed a bit as the Sandman passed over the retired
military ID and rental-car papers.
The kid compared the license number then looked at
the ID card. Instantly stiffening a bit, he simultaneously threw his hand up in
a salute while snapping to attention.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning.” He casually returned the salute.
“Off to play golf, Colonel?”
The mercenary grinned. “Later. I'm going up to see
General Pruitt; we're old friends.” Pruitt headed up the Training Command and
the Sandman wouldn't know him if he fell over him. But the cop would know the
name.
“Have a nice day, sir.” Retirees, the cop thought
enviously, and passed the documents back. Must be nice to have a colonel's
pension and nothing to do. The Sandman waved and eased through the gate.
Named Randolph field back in the 1930s, the base
was laid out like a lollipop between two huge parallel runways. The “stick” led
up from the gate to the Taj Mahal, a cream-colored building with wide, dark
porticos and a red roof. An octagon tower soared upward, was capped by a gold
dome.
A roundabout split traffic and he took the road
around to the right. The base exchange complex, commissary, and most of the
nonessential base functions were on this side. The center of the lollipop was
the Officer's Club complex and enormous, oval-shaped pool. Concentric rings
spread out from this, joined by tree-lined streets like spokes on a wheel.
General officers and colonels had houses here, with a sprinkling of lieutenant
colonels and majors.
He'd get to that later.
Turning into the BX parking lot, he found the
Starbucks and parked. He had nowhere to be until this afternoon and needed to
kill time unobtrusively. Checking into a hotel off base hadn't been an option
since he needed to slip inside the gate during the rush. With his retired
military ID card he could chance a Visiting Officer Quarters room but there
really was no need. The fewer people who saw him directly the better. Yawning,
he sighed and rubbed his eyes. First a coffee and then to the fitness center. It
was the perfect place to spend hours where no one would get suspicious. There
were also lockers and showers.
Getting out, he stood for a moment and casually
stretched in the morning sun. Across the rooftops, he could hear the whine of
aircraft engines and saw the scene in his memory. Buildings full of eager,
intense young men; some were huddled in flight briefings scribbling notes on
line-up cards. Others were in class, dissecting hydraulic systems or absorbing
advanced aerodynamics. Some were walking out in pairs to the rows of clean,
brightly painted T-38s and T-6 Texans.
Locking the car doors, he stared a long time toward
the thick, green mass of trees rising over the club area and officers' housing.
Children played and couples strolled along the wide tree-lined streets and
manicured lawns. Men came home each night from various offices or the flight
line. They wore uniforms but nearly all of them would do nothing more dangerous
than cross the street or fly a T-38 around the Texas countryside.
They were safe here. From wars, from danger, and
from the deadly world of the fighter pilot. A world that he, himself, had come
from. These men here wore the uniforms and embraced the trappings of the
military, but most had no clue about combat and the few men who did it. Wellâthe
Sandman smiled a littleâthere would be a brief and final introduction to at
least one of them tonight. Turning then, he mingled with others walking into the
BX and disappeared insideâjust one of the crowd.
T
hey began trickling out of the big, white building at four o'clock. Men slipping away with gym bags over their shoulders and briefcases in their hands. Most government offices emptied out early and this was especially true on a Friday. Some went to the fitness center, others headed home or to the Officer's Club.
From the parking lot across the street, the mercenary watched them all. Military officers traveled a great dealâTDY, or temporary duty, as it was called. It was normally very difficult to say with any certainty where a particular man would be on any given date. However, courtesy of his informant, the Sandman knew this man would be here today.
This week Randolph Air Force Base had convened a Central Selection Board to promote captains to major. In this case, the members of the board would all be at least lieutenant colonels or colonels, and of particular interest was the board president. By law and policy, a brigadier general must preside over such a promotion board, and this particular man's identity, as well as the date of the CSB, had reached the Sandman in Amman.
Ten minutes after five, a small group of men left the building and slowly walked down the stairs. The one in the middle was obviously the senior officer as the others remained at a careful distanceâclose, but not too close.
Eyes narrowed, the mercenary watched the man come down the steps. He was older, of course, and his sandy blond hair was thinning at the sides. Years before, he'd been slightly built, with a spring in his step, but this had given way to paunchy middle age. The neck looked thick and his movements had the corpulent stiffness of someone who'd spent too many years behind a desk. But it was him.
Brigadier General Sebastian Herbert Fowler.
The officers crossed the street and stopped beside a blue staff car in a VIP space nearest the street. They talked briefly, then saluted as a group and broke up. Fowler tossed his briefcase into the backseat, eased into the front and slowly drove off.
Getting here, to this place at this time, was relatively predictable. Some logistics and a great deal of skill had been involved, but it was a situation the Sandman could control - right up to the second Fowler drove off alone. Following twenty yards back, the mercenary wondered what the general would do: the gym or maybe back to his Distinguished Visitor Quarters. He might even drive off base for the Riverwalk or to visit a friend.
But the staff car crossed Northwest Drive and passed behind the Taj Mahal, probably ruling out the fitness center or BX as destinations. Fowler didn't follow Northeast Drive around the big circle but continued on C Street toward the east flight line.
Pausing at 5th Street, he crossed and entered the parking lots next to the T-38 Training Squadrons. The mercenary turned right into another parking area and slid to a stop, watching. The general had flown AT-38s years before, so perhaps he intended to visit a friend. Not that that was likely though: S. Herbert Fowler wasn't the type to have any close friends. The blue car traveled slowly up along the buildings but never stopped.
He crossed over 5th Street again, cut through another parking lot, and headed down B Street. He was now parallel to the Sandman and going the opposite direction back toward the center of the base. Cutting through the same parking lot, the mercenary was turning onto B Street when the staff car stopped beneath the trees in front of the Visiting Officer's Quarters.
The Sandman eased to the curb several spaces back and parked as well. There were two such identical VOQ buildings, each in the shape of a C with the open end facing the street. They were beautiful old buildings, remnants of a more dignified time. Wide porches covered with deep overhangs kept the entrance to the rooms cool and shady. Each room, the mercenary knew from experience, had a drawing room with a fireplace that opened onto a large bedroom. Bachelor officers used to live here and it was quite comfortable. Unable to part with this aspect of its past, the Air Force had updated the buildings and kept the suites for distinguished guests like general officers.
Fowler got out and strode up the walkway to the farthest building. The Sandman had no trouble keeping him in sight since all the rooms were accessed from the verandah. Noting the general's suite, the mercenary sighed and settled back to wait. Besides gym clothes, he'd made several other purchases at the BX. A roll of duct tape, an extra set of thick athletic socks, and a pizza box sat on the seat next to him. Though several hours old, the pizza still smelled good and he slipped a piece into his mouth, remembering the man he'd followed.
Herbert Fowler had scraped through school in some Midwest fly-over state with perfectly straight borders. In a place like Iowa or wherever he'd come from, there hadn't been any competition, so Fowler managed to get a commission as a second lieutenant. Incredibly, he'd also been able to apply for flight school. However, now faced with talented contenders from real schools, Fowler couldn't make the cut and ended up in navigator training. So for nearly five years he rode around in the backseat making a pest of himself and building up his supply of volcanic resentments. These were directed at anyone he perceived as more fortunate or capable than himselfâor taller. He burned with envy toward young officers who came from good schools and became pilots right away.
Finally, due to timing and shortfalls in Air Force manning, Fowler's repeated application for pilot training was accepted. As a captain, he was the senior officer in his pilot training class and, like many of those who have been ignored or overlooked their entire lives, he reveled in minor authority. As with most ambitious but mediocre people, Herbert Fowler learned the value of politics and connections.
Though largely a meritocracy, the military certainly possesses its political side. Young Fowler used this, along with his relative seniority, to get a fighter assignment out of pilot training. He flew F-15s in Alaska and Holland, gaining a well-deserved reputation as a conniving twit. Fighter pilots reject such men like nature rejects the weak or deformed. At each new base, once his true colors inevitably showed, Fowler found himself shunted around into positions no one else wanted.
In the winter of 1991, as the war with Iraq approached, Major Fowler saw himself leading hundreds of men into combat and fulfilling his destiny. At least as he saw it. Through pulling strings and cashing in favors to get sent “over there,” a compromise was reached. Fowler was indeed sent to the war zoneâbut as a safety officer. Assigned to a base that had no aircraft, he spent the war making coffee for generals and offering tactical opinions no one cared to hear.
After the war, with squadron commands going to recent combat veterans, Fowler was all but forgotten. He limped off a staff job to repair his flagging career and became a favored pet rock to several generals. Making coffee well and kissing ass expertly, Fowler was promoted to lieutenant colonel and sent to a fighter wing for a command. Unfortunately, another protégé of a more important general got the command and Fowler had to bite his tongue, bide his time, and play second fiddle.
Now, if there was any type of fighter pilot that Sebastian Herbert hated most it was a Weapons Officerâliterally the best of the best in tactical aviation. However, since Fowler had lucked into fighters and only survived through politics, there was no way under heaven that he had ever been considered for that elite, prestigious course. Even if he had, he would've been psychologically and physically unable to live through it.
It ate at him more poignantly than all his other carefully hidden failures. And here in this wing, newly arrived from Nellis, was a young graduate of the very course that exemplified Fowler's professional shortcomings and personal desires. At last he had a target for his jealously and insecurity.
However, much to Fowler's shock and dismay, the youthful fighter pilot was in no way cowed or impressed by him. In fact, he had the audacity to publicly disagree with Fowler over several significant tactical changes. The wing commander, a brigadier general and also a former Target Arm, happened to agree with the young captain. Never one to admit an error, Fowler waited until the general was transferred, then used his own connections to try to prevent the captain's early promotion to major. He also attempted to derail the other man's career at every opportunity. He didn't succeed but he did muddy the waters in a spiteful, petty fashion. It wasn't until years later, when the captain, now a lieutenant colonel himself, was due to command a fighter squadron of his own, that Fowler was able to interfere. Quietly, behind the scenes, he called in favors and manipulated the system and the command went to someone else.
Behind his flat, gray eyes, the mercenary stared at the building. If it had only been that he could've let it go. He was accustomed to envy and though most fighter pilots were above it, he'd always considered the source and laughed it off. But when Fowler's interference cost him a command he went off to a staff tourâthe tour that lost him a wife and daughter. If Fowler hadn't interfered, then the mercenary and his family would've been somewhere else. Similar malicious interference had cost Jimmy Neville his life and would cost Fowler his.
As he watched, Herbert Fowler emerged from the shadows beneath the verandah and walked down the steps. He'd changed into a flight suit and the Sandman knew that meant the Officer's Club. No fighter pilot, even a pretender such as Fowler, would go into a club wearing blues.
The staff car pulled away and the he watched him go. If the general did anything but turn left, then he'd follow. As it crossed Northeast Drive, the car turned left and the mercenary stayed where he was. Park Drive cut through the concentric rings of the housing area and headed directly to the club. The mercenary smiled; now all he had to do was wait for the general to return. Fowler wouldn't be too late; he certainly wasn't a gambler or a Crud player. The man was also a teetotaler and that pleased the mercenary. He wanted the general conscious for what was going to happen.
“D
id you ever play much, General?” The colonel next to him shouted over the music and pointed toward the billiard table.
Herbert Fowler glanced at the Crud game, shrugged his shoulders and shouted back. “Sureâdudn't everyone?”
Actually he didn't play. Crud was synonymous with the drinking games, dice, and song-singing part of fighter-pilot life that he detested. For years he'd had to go along with it and pretend to love the raucous side of being a combat officer. “Work hard, play hard” was more than just a clichéâit was gospel.
But he'd hated it.
When he'd finally gotten a command of his own he immediately began a personal crusade to make his officers better menâmen like him. The first thing he'd done was to close the squadron bar down and make it into a coffee lounge. He also got rid of the “Hog Log,” a daily journal of mishaps, large and small, that any pilot could scribble in. It was a sarcastic, irreverent, and, in his opinion, humiliating tradition. Finally, his squadron's patch featured a pair of dice, which Fowler found so offensive that he lobbied the Air Force to change it.
However, since that squadronâand its patchâhad been around since 1917, the powers that be ignored the request. Not surprisingly, Fowler's efforts killed morale; his men won none of the periodic competitions that kept fighter pilots sharp. They performed miserably on evaluations and no one asked for tour-of-duty extensions.
Fowler, of course, placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of his subordinates. The wing commander knew exactly what was happening, managed to shorten Fowler's tenure and get him promoted and transferred out. Everyone threw a party when he'd gone, but the damage had been done. S. Herbert saw none of it, being absolutely convinced of his own righteousness.
“I think we did a good job here, sir,” the colonel ventured tentatively, referring to the selection board.
Fowler knew the man had purposely sought him out and was sucking up to him and he didn't mind in the least. It was part of the game. He'd done it and now he got to enjoy the attentions of others.
“I think we did the best possible job for the Air Force.” He replied primly and took a sip of his Coke. He always ordered a Coke with a little shot glass of rum on the side. Fowler never drank it and managed to discreetly pour out the rum, but it looked like he was “one of the boys.” Appearances were important, after all.
Tossing back the Coke, he smacked his lips and stood up. The colonel immediately stood as well but Fowler clapped him on the shoulder. “Sit. I'm outa here. Early flight home tomorrow.”
“Yessir. Have a good trip back.”
The Officer's Club crowd was mostly younger pilots and lots of girls. The music was loud and couples were grinding away on the dance floor. Smaller groups of men, those without women, stood everywhere, drinking and talking with their hands. The general edged his way through it all, fighting back a petulant frown. Officers should behave like gentlemen and most of these definitely weren't living up to that, he felt. If he commanded this base he'd shut this place down. Except for Sunday brunch, of course.
As he lumbered up the stairwell, a wave of fresh air hit his sweaty round face and the general smiled.
That
was a pleasant thought, to command here. Have to work on that one, he thought, making his way to the vehicle. Fowler reveled in the small things, the trappings of military life, so he paused a moment and stared at the blue staff car parked importantly in a General Officer Only spot right up front.
Preoccupied with himself, Fowler didn't see the man watching from another car across the street. He also didn't notice the headlights that stayed thirty yards behind him on his way back to the BOQs. As the staff car parked, the Sandman continued toward the flight line, did a U-turn and pulled into the B Street parking lot. Picking a dark corner away from the streetlamps, he sat a moment as the engine ticked while the general strode up the sidewalk to his room.